I have bad news. We arrived together. We walked down
the long hallway and out of the basement and under the
fluorescent-paneled ceiling. You were talking about
being a child. You knew a full day before the rain
would arrive, by the smell the air carried. You knew a
full hour before the train would arrive, and who it
carried. When you were a child, everyone thought there
were two kinds of days: a normal day and a bad day.
They desired a bad day so the tedium of a normal day
would again be desirable. As soon as a bad day became
more desirable than a normal day, you could see it in
the way they looked at you. You used to think, how
easy it would be to make them this gift. Maybe it
happened that way. We left together, walking up the
stairs and out of the basement where the ceiling was
covered with fluorescent panels. You were talking
about the news. You said, I climbed the tower, to see
what was coming. The street was full before us. You
said, I have bad news.
Carolyn Guinzio is the author of West Pullman, winner
of the 2004 Bordighera Poetry Prize. Her work has
appeared in Colorado Review, 42opus, New American Writing, Octopus, Gutcult, Typo, No Tell Motel, Willow Springs, and elsewhere. A
Chicago native, she lives in Fayetteville, AR.